


you are the wilderness

by huffspuffsblows



Category: Trigun
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 12:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffspuffsblows/pseuds/huffspuffsblows
Summary: “You could tie my tongue, my lips, my teeth, split them into surrender, into a foreign language and I would still manage to cough up your name.”– Danielle Shorr





	you are the wilderness

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the manga after facing off with the puppeteer, I always thought these two needed a little boning to feel better after.

  
  
Vash has been examined too many times to count on each eyelash flecked with tears, by careful hands and hands ready to unmake him, to look at every spiral of DNA and categorize it in a book somewhere to gather dust. Careful hands have wiped blood, mended bones like bonds that are truly tattered, kicked the back of his head into some semblance of belonging. [these are the ones he loves the most-- _I was here, Vash was here, just Vash was here--_ ]

He should be ashamed. Embarrassed, to be the subject of Wolfwood's dark gaze on him beneath the ceiling of his home, his _home_ for God's sake. The blush does start, patchy, from his neck all the way down, down, down, with every inch of skin the priest reveals to the open air.

It's cold. But Wolfwood's fingers burn as fever bright as his eyes, trailing a path across his ribs, over his grate-- his heart. But he'd always had that.

"I noticed, when I first woke up," Wolfwood says, stilling any movements, abortive and all, into the press of his fingers across his belly. "My heater was gone. I came to find it, and I found it with the dumbest expression on it's face..."

Without even being _asked_ , the rude shit shoves Vash over and makes room for himself in the tiny, tiny hospital bed. With an ooff, the rustle of fabric and Wolfwood's cold feet tucked into his knees, he hadn't pegged the priest for the big spoon, but here they are.

"I knew it-- you only like me for my heat," Vash chuckles around the beat of his heart.

"I hardly like you at all," Wolfwood makes it incredibly hard to break the point across, because see he's nosing at the back of Vash's neck. When the typhoon of love and donuts turns over onto his back, the bed creaking in that old cliche, Wolfwood kisses him.

[he kisses him like he hopes Vash would have it in himself to kill him]

Fingers threaded in Wolfwood's hair, Vash hopes he can't feel how hard his heart's beating, can't feel pain from the grate, where it's wedged between them. It scrapes across Wolfwood's bare chest, will grind a bruise if he isn't careful, which he never is [and he calls _Vash_ reckless]-- Kissing is nice, kissing is important, and soon enough his lips sting with it, hot and soft beneath Wolfwood's mouth, beneath his teeth that nip and suck and claim _mine_ , if at least until the morning.

He rocks steadily against the priest's ass, sighs when his warmth slinks lower and lower beneath the blanket, Vash's legs fall open of their own accord, a prayer on his lips. Wolfwood's mouth is hot around him, lips plush against the head of his cock-- aqua eyes close:

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...."

A huff of hot air across him grants him a reprieve, flush traveling further down his body from the sight of Wolfwood, blanket up over his disheveled hair, than the sight of his mouth around his cock.

"I'm doing this and you're praying for death? Even my sense of flattery ain't that fucked up, needle noggin."

"It's the truth that I die every time I witness your mouth," he breathes without ceremony, that single breath hitching when equally warm fingers wrap around him.

"You're so goddamn pleasant." And Vash can't decide if Wolfwood is flattered, as he said, or not, because for some time after that he can't decide on anything other than _more_.

Side by side, like always. Except this time, Wolfwood lets Vash hold his hand, trace the rough edges that had taken him apart moments ago. His breath is fast, stuttering on each intake.

"You left your shoes on _again_." This earns him nothing more than a vague, sleepy grunt. Smoke and metal and gun oil coat Vash's nostrils where his nose is buried atop Wolfwood's downy head. Fingers curl automatically into his when they intertwine, and his heart will probably never stop running at this rate.

There's only the sound of his breathing, tucked against Vash, and the tic of a clock somewhere.

A smile finds its way to his mouth-- its tattered like the edges of his coat, but its so wide it stings his cheeks.

"Tell me again, what was that line you used when you finished that thing off? I might be jealous, such a great line. About _ham_?"

If, tomorrow, Vash wakes up on the floor with a pillow case in his mouth, no one speaks of it. Plant aliens are fucking weird.


End file.
